Robin Kuryakin and his merry men and woman
by Rosywonder
Summary: Even when in a very bad mood, Illya Kuryakin remains ever vigilant ... Written as a response to an LJ picture challenge - the table number. Sorry folks, forgot to post this over here!


ROBIN KURYAKIN AND HIS MERRY MEN AND WOMAN

Fat Joe's, or 'The Purple Haze', to give it the name emblazoned in heavy letters of the same hue outside the shop, was humming in numbers as well as smell Napoleon thought, as they pushed their way through half a dozen student types congregated near the door and headed for a table against the back wall.

Kuryakin seemed intent on burying himself in the wall, sliding as far as he could along the shiny fake leather seats of the booths that lined the back of the restaurant, from which there was an almost perfect view through the slightly grimy windows and door, to the world outside. Napoleon smiled grimly to himself and followed, deciding to get the mood out of the way before they could order.

'Napoleon', Illya began eventually, when a couple of laser glances emanating from the wall had scared off several potential seat sharers, 'if I said 'one inch' to you, what would you take that to mean?'

'I presume you mean in the context of where we've just been' Napoleon replied cautiously, startled slightly by the sudden thump of an unasked for metal number indicator on the table, bearing the number seven. He stared at the metal rod with its twin rings holding the rather large square number card, before wresting his attention back to his partner, who was now glancing furiously at the bespattered mirrors lining the walls behind the bar, before assuming his previous position, fixing his partner with an uncomfortably penetrating look.

'Of course. If I remember from our conversation before we reached _that place_, you suggested to me that one inch would be enough to satisfy the perceptions of those of our colleagues in the security services of this country who obviously have an extremely superficial view of what constitutes being professional.'

Napoleon swallowed imperceptibly. The meeting in Waverly's office that morning had been uneventful. The usual sharing of intelligence; signing off on a couple of missions, an interesting discussion about events in Yugoslavia, but no more. Illya had been in a good mood; he'd even thrown a complement in Napoleon's direction regarding his Serbo-Croat translation skills and they had risen from the table eventually with no more than coffee and a laid-back morning in view, or so it appeared.

Illya had made it to the lifts by the time Napoleon caught up with him. Waverly had called Solo back, waiting for the door to close on the Russian before he spoke.

'Mr Solo, I'm hosting a small reception and dinner tonight upstairs in the guest suite to which I would like you and Mr Kuryakin to attend. It has a more serious aspect to it than just mere socialising of course, namely the sharing of intelligence about Herr Dr Konrad Targ.'

'Ah. The man responsible for Targon gas.' Solo had sighed at the name. He could only be working for THRUSH if his egotism extended to naming his own brand of deadly nerve gas after himself.

'Er, there will be representatives of each of the security services, the usual names.' Waverly hesitated, leaving Napoleon to predict what might be coming next. He cast around in front of him for something to quieten his hands before looking up, not unkindly Napoleon thought. 'Mr Kuryakin' he said, pausing.

'Yes sir, you want to speak to him? I'll just ….. '

'No, Mr Solo, that's not it. Of course his work has been exemplary over the last …. '

'two years, sir' Napoleon aided, a kaleidoscope of memories streaming past and then softly collapsing as Waverly continued.

'Exactly. I think you'd agree that he has, at least in part, contributed to your own exemplary work in the same period' he added, holding Napoleon's gaze, his expression saying more. He swallowed slightly and then, after tapping a file rhythmically with his fingers, continued. 'However, these people do not know him as we do, and I have to say, bring their own peculiarly narrow and rather superficial judgements into play on these occasions.'

Despite working with Waverly for what felt like most of his adult life at times, Napoleon was finding it hard to work out what this might be leading to.

'So . . .' Waverly looked down and then rose from his seat.

'Um, see if you can do something about the way he . . . particularly his . . ' Waverly muttered, accompanying his half sentences with a few vague motions of his hands in the air. 'Twenty dollars says you can achieve it by tonight.'

Napoleon had to pinch himself as he walked down the corridor to believe what he'd just heard.

'Well, Napoleon, did you or did you not?' Napoleon blinked a little and stared at his partner. 'I'm beginning to believe that this whole thing was a plot dreamed up by you and other persons unknown.'

'Oh surely not' was the best reply Napoleon could manage without a smirk or even a snort, knowing that his partner was about to commence a full-scale dissection of the events of the morning.

'You tell me that we are to attend this dinner and that at least an attempt at conformity to what you referred to as 'acceptable appearance' whatever that is, was required. Then you drag me to _that place_ and suggest to me that I tell . . .'

'Frank' Napoleon interposed, seeing two meals he hadn't ordered mysteriously heading their way.

'That I tell Frank 'one inch and no more.'

'The, 'and no more' was your idea, comrade.'

Illya stared unhappily across the table and then glanced down at his plate. 'So why was it that I am left with only one inch of hair covering my head?'

Napoleon was in some strange way grateful to the two unordered meals for diverting his partner from his misery and Napoleon's part in it. They both stared at their plates, before Illya picked up a few fries from the side of his burger and chewed them meditatively.

'Something very strange is going on' he said quietly. 'Neither of us ordered these meals; ergo we didn't need this number which we also have, and now both George and April are heading in our direction from opposite ends of the restaurant.'

Napoleon jerked his head round to see them approaching, George managing to reach the table before April, who seemed to have become entangled with the octopi legs of the students near the door.

'Hi you two, I came as quickly as I could' he bawled, simultaneously sliding himself and his plate in beside Napoleon. He moved his glasses slightly before giving Illya a grin.

'Hey, I like your h… ' something about Napoleon's writhing mouth, or it could have been the knife like dig in the ribs he received, made him pause. 'I .. mean I like your … hands!' he exploded, nodding vigorously before relieving the tension by stuffing a fry into his mouth. Illya put down his burger and contemplated his hands before picking it up again and continuing to eat.

'George, I'm sorry I don't quite understand …'

'Hi, thanks for waiting, getting through that was something else!' April put her plate down gently next to Illya's and sat down. 'Oh darling, I love the h … the hat I've just bought!' she almost screamed, noting Napoleon's upwardly mobile eyebrows from across the table.

Putting down the remains of his burger Illya leaned over and glanced either side of her.

'You haven't been shopping' he said flatly, his lips neatly compressed. 'Correct me if I'm wrong, but why is everyone speaking complete gibberish, and incidentally, why are you two both here?'

He stared at the number seven again and then looked towards the door, which Joe had now wedged open to counter the upwardly rolling temperature. Without waiting for them to reply he stood up suddenly, grasping the silver number holder and then clambering onto the table to the synchronised gasps of admiration of four women in the next booth. Napoleon ducked as the number, still attached to its silver rod, flew past his head, out of the door and hit the head of a man moving swiftly out onto the pavement outside.

There was a sudden hush, only broken by the whump of the silver rod and an immediate, strangled cry from the man as he turned, grabbed the number card and then collapsed onto the pavement.

Illya maintained his position on the table for a moment before Napoleon stood up and escorted him gracefully down onto the floor.

'Herr Dr Targ I presume' he said, following Illya out onto the pavement.

'Yes the very man. It looks as if the gas was released by touching the number. Out there, only he was the lucky recipient; in here, it would have been all of us.'

Napoleon grimaced. 'Not so lucky number seven then, eh?'

The coffee was a step up from the burgers whatever Illya's face said, and once the body had been removed they were able to enjoy it in relative peace back in the booth. Napoleon wasn't entirely shocked to see Mr Waverly weaving his way through the dispersing crowds as the mortuary van's closing doors ended most of the onlookers' interest in the proceedings.

'I did receive a note to join you here' Waverly mused, looking round and then giving Fat Joe a small salute as he turned back. 'I sensed some kind of plot brewing but you young people can usually sort these sorts of problems out without my involvement.'

'Yes sir; it appears that Targ had all of us in his sights after the Berlin fiasco' Napoleon replied. 'He even held George here accountable for that neutralising vapour he invented to limit Targon's effects.'

'I can understand why he wanted to kill Napoleon and I, but what about April?' Illya offered from the corner of the booth. He saw Waverly and Solo look up and then suddenly smile conspiratorially at the same time.

'It was for the evening at the Adlon' April replied softly, not obviously caring to go into any more detail. Illya nodded and picked up his coffee cup. However many times he had demonstrated it in Waverly's office, the two of them were still unbelievably slow at sleight of hand tricks. What he couldn't understand was why Waverly was passing his partner money surreptitiously at all.

Waverly sat back, a satisfied expression extending over the folds of his skin. 'I must say Mr Kuryakin, your throwing skills are exceptional. Quite the Robin Hood.'

'And his merry men . . .'George burst in happily,

'and woman' April added, allowing George and Waverly to guide her safely out of the restaurant.

Kuryakin remained in the corner, draining the dregs of his coffee.

'Not so merry' he muttered, his eyes glinting dangerously. Napoleon glanced at the door. From his position, he reckoned he could just make it out in front of the Russian. Just.


End file.
